


Gods don't forget

by actual_trashbag_living_in_space



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post 3x13, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Someone Help Will Graham, trigger warning: suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-24
Updated: 2015-10-24
Packaged: 2018-04-27 20:45:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5063482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/actual_trashbag_living_in_space/pseuds/actual_trashbag_living_in_space
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal doesn't survive the fall and Will goes on a murder spree.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gods don't forget

**Author's Note:**

> This is unbeta'd and all mistakes are mine. No, I don't like to see Will suffer. Yes, I make him suffer anyway. I'm sorry.

He’s falling. He can feel the wind rushing by, taste the salt on his lips, hear the sea coming closer, closer, _too close_. And he can feel strong arms gripping him, pulling him against gravity. It’s distant, not quite coming through, but it’s the thing keeping him there, anchoring him. They hit the water. It’s cold, so cold, squeezing his lungs, making it hard to control his limbs. Everything hurts, blood mixes with water, and he doesn’t know where up and down is anymore. He pulls the body with him, in any direction, just pulls, he’s blind, unable to see through the blackness of the water. Its weight is crushing. There’s so much blood, _so much blood_. It makes the water taste like iron. And then he can breathe, can see, can feel again. He’s still gripping the body, he’s still disoriented, he’s still hurting. But he’s not dead. Until he looks at the body beneath him, looks at Hannibal, and his world falls apart. His back is open, torn from the impact. It looks like there’s still blood oozing from his wounds, but it could just as well be the water running down. His eyes are too dead, his body too limp, his hands too cold. He’s gone.

***

It takes everything in him not to just give up, to just lie down and die. He knows he won’t be able to carry Hannibal’s body in the state he’s in. Everything hurts and he’s so weak he can barely get himself to stand up. So he leaves him there, makes sure he won’t get pulled into the sea. He promises he’ll be back. Not that anyone hears him. All that’s left in this place are the ghosts of the dead and the heavy smell of blood in the air. Somehow he makes it to the house, into the bath tub. He bandages his wounds, stitches them up as good as possible (but it feels wrong when he couldn’t do it for Hannibal). He sleeps, hours, days, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t care.

***

The pain isn’t magically gone when he wakes up. Every step hurts, every movement, every breath. He gets up anyway. He has things to do, bodies to take care of. A lover to bury.

***

He digs two graves. A small one, barely big enough to fit Dolarhyde, he doesn’t care how it looks, it just needs to get done. A big one, he could fit Hannibal twice, it’s perfectly squared, perfectly measured. He walks around, searches for flowers, picks only the prettiest. They lie next to the graves and look lonely. He buries Dolarhyde fast, sets a rock on the ground above his head to remember where he lies. And then he climbs down the cliffs. It’s windy down there, cold. He doesn’t like it. But maybe that’s how his life will be like from now on. Cold. Harsh. Lonely. Hannibal is lying there exactly the way he left him. No animal dared to touch his body. It’s like they were afraid of him, even in death. He doesn’t know why he’s disappointed. Maybe he’d hoped for more. It takes a long time to get him up the cliff, turns out falling is easier than rising, the same way leaving is easier than staying.

***

He washes him, cleans his wounds, gets him fresh clothes. They’ll get dirty again soon, down in the ground. It doesn’t matter. This is something he needs to do. He looks so peaceful, lying surrounded by flowers. It’s a picture for ever burned into his mind. The same way his touch, his smile, his voice will always have a special place in his heart, will always be remembered. At least that’s what he tries to tell himself. As if he didn’t know that wasn’t true. Gods don’t forget. Humans do.

***

The night brings bad dream followed by bad dream. When he wakes he’s sweating and his head is pounding. He finds some aspirin in the nightstand. He finds something else, too. Several black, leather-bound books full with neat handwriting. Hannibal. At first, he hesitates. It’s private, probably, he isn’t supposed to see it. But he wasn’t supposed to see him die either. Wasn’t supposed to carry him up the cliff. Wasn’t supposed to throw dirt on his unmoving body and hear it thump off. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He opens the first page.

***

He makes his decision while lying in the bath tub. It’s an easy decision, really. He knew that he was gonna do it the moment he understood the content of the books. The diaries. It doesn’t take him long to understand. It takes him long to plan. To make connections. To set a route. It doesn’t take long to convince himself. Or any time at all. It’s the only way. He could end it right now, could make it all be over. He’s tempted more than once in the 6 months he stays. But the world would forget. Forget about Hannibal Lecter. Forget about Will Graham. He will make them remember. He will make them _understand_. He will make them hear the words Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham and lock their doors. He will make them fear the night more than ever.

***

He takes his boat. They wouldn’t let him get through security at the airport. He doesn’t want to risk it. He has time to think. Too much time. And not enough. He starts in Asia. He doesn’t stay longer than necessary in one place. He sleeps on night trains, not leaving a trace. He kills people. One a night. Sometimes two. He sees things, sees places, sees people. Causes deaths. Sees more. He has nightmares. He sees dead people. He sees Hannibal. He sees so much. _Too much_. His head hurts.

***

It’s not always easy to keep up with every single person. Hannibal knew many people. Met even more. He was a social person, liked wherever he went. He listed them all carefully in his diaries. 1952 people. At least those were the ones he knew closer, or talked to. Sometimes he gets tired. Frustrated. So many people. He knows he needs to do it. There’s this pressure on his rib cage that won’t leave. But with every person that dies by his hand it gets easier to breathe. He’s healing himself. Sometimes it feels like he’s doing the opposite.

***

He continues his journey to Africa. There aren’t many people there to take care of. Hannibal only went there twice. It’s refreshing. He can take a night off every once in a while. Sometimes he wanders the streets at night, thinking of Hannibal. He wonders if he can see him. If he knows what he’s doing. He doubts it. His nightmares are replaced with dreams of Hannibal more and more often. That doesn’t mean they’re good dreams. He sees himself killing him. Sees himself eating him. Sees himself leaving him. He wakes up bathed in sweat.

***

He feels lost sometimes. Like he let his anchor down into the sea without a chain attached and now he’s floating, not knowing where he will end up.

***

He keeps to himself. He spends too much time inside his own head. He knows he shouldn’t. There are too many things he can’t get rid off, too many memories leading to bad places. Sometimes he wishes he could leave it all behind. Start a new life. He can’t. He’s too deep in now.

***

Australia is big and vast. Hannibal went there once. He feels closer to him there, somehow. Maybe because fewer people walked the paths they did. It’s more private. More intimate. Sometimes he sees a silhouette up the street. A shadow. His mind is playing tricks on him. He knows it. But he can’t deny the way his heart skips every time he sees it.

***

He reads the newspaper often enough to know that they’re getting closer. He never leaves any trace but they’re starting to make connections. Police stations worldwide are working on his case. They know he’s gonna come for Europe and America. They don’t expect him to stop in Australia. He doesn’t. Sometimes they blame him for a murder he didn’t commit. Sometimes they miss one, assign it to someone else.

***

Going through Europe feels like being reborn. He walks the places he walked looking for Hannibal. He kills people that aren’t complete strangers. People he’s met before. He hangs them, cuts them open, breaks their necks. He enjoys it. He likes the way the killing makes him feel; in control, powerful, _infinite_. Sometimes he wonders if that’s how it felt for Hannibal. If he felt powerful when he killed Abigail. If he felt good when he pushed the blade inside him. He imagines it must’ve been satisfying. At least a little bit.

***

He misses his dogs. Constantly. There’s this gaping hole where they’re just not there and he can’t take it. He doesn’t kill the people who own dogs. He can’t bring himself to do it, to take something so precious from the innocent. Sometimes, at night, he thinks he hears Winston barking. Buster growling. Nika whining. Lilo scratching on the door. He doesn’t allow himself to hope to ever see them again. But he can’t help it.

***

Canada is lonely. Even lonelier than Australia, even though it shouldn’t feel that way. It’s cold, too. Colder than he’s used to from Wolfstrap. It’s a biting coldness. It goes through his gloves and nestles inside them, preparing to stay. Like the ice that wrapped around his heart when Hannibal didn’t move anymore. Like the ice cold water he sometimes feels bubbling up his throat, making it unable to breathe. Like the shiver that runs up his spine whenever he remembers Hannibal’s open, unmoving eyes.  
***

He finds Alana in Camael, Canada. She’s on vacation with Margot. Not having the kid with them makes it easier for him to kill them.

***

Margot dies fast. She doesn’t know what’s coming for her. A shot to the head and it’s over.

***

He takes his time with Alana. He thanks her for all she’s done, makes sure she knows how much he loves her. He looses count of the amount of times he says sorry. He sits next to her dead body for a long time, holding her cold hand. He feels numb.

***

He goes through Baltimore fast, knowing he’s just trying to scare her. He can’t kill everyone Hannibal knew here. He’d get too much attention. It’s a risk he won’t take. So he only kills the rude ones, relishes in the fear in their eyes. It’s enough to make her pack and leave. That’s all he really wanted to achieve. He knows he’ll find her. There’s no hiding from him. She should know that by now.

***

By the time he arrives in Quantico the people he’s after know. First he kills Brian. He looks him in the eyes and smiles when he pushes the blade inside. His hand is warm and slick from the blood. Then he kills Jimmy. He tries to put up a fight. It’s pointless.

***

He starts to get nervous, they’re coming, he knows it. But he tries not to think about it. Tries to get through the rest.

***

He doesn’t find Freddie, Freddie finds him. She’s figured it out, always has. She’s too smart for her own good. And she trusts her ability to protect herself too much. He loves seeing the fear in her eyes, enjoys seeing the life slowly leave her body, seeing her sag into herself. She looks like an angel, pale, red hair around her head like a halo. Her blue dress is not so blue anymore.

***

He starts to feel the bloodlust more than he ever had in those last six years. The moon is high that night, the stars invisible. It feels right to kill him that night.

***

Jack accepts it easily, he’s seen it coming for a long time. He’s had months to get used to the idea of dying at his hand. He’s tired of everything, tired of living. Bella is dead, Alana is dead, everyone he knew and loved - dead. There’s nothing that holds him there. Nothing that keeps him alive. Gentle hands on his face are the last things he feels.

***

He’s tired. He’s glad it’s over soon.

***

He’s done in Quantico and now he’s moving north, following Bedelia. She knows he’s coming. She knows she can’t run from him. There’s no escape. He catches up to her fast. While he holds her captive and slowly eats her, limb after limb, they talk a lot. She tries to get into his head more than once. He doesn’t let her. When he finally eats her heart, well cooked but not as good as Hannibal always did it, he’s content. He can feel him looking over his shoulder, watching him eat. A shiver runs down his spine. The air is humming with his presence.

***

He walks through the dusty house, touching the counters he got used to, the clothes he held in his hands far too often, feels the floor under his feet. He looks out he window, sees the cliff, the forest, the rocks. He sees Hannibal again, biting off Dolarhyde’s skin, sees himself ripping him open. He sees the two of them, falling. He can still feel the wind rushing by and the warmth of Hannibal’s arms around him. It’s like a resurrection. All the memories he’d tried to suppress those last years come bubbling back up, choking him. It gets worse when he steps out into the garden. The grass is high, it grew more than he’d expected. The flowers give it the idyllic feeling of a summer meadow. Birds are singing. It feels like he’s at his own funeral.

***

It takes him a while to find the graves, they’re hidden in flowers, flowers, flowers. It feels right that his lover is buried under flowers, under new life. Because he gave him a new life. Gave him a new chance. And he’ll be forever grateful for that. But it’s time. It’s time to do what he wanted to since he looked into Hannibal’s dead eyes. Since he felt his cold hand in his own. Since he lost his reason to live.

***

He writes a letter explaining what he did. It’s not too detailed, he wants to give them a little more work, after all. He doesn’t mention the diaries once. They’re private. They’re his. They’ve been keeping him alive for the last years. He leaves the letter in plain sight on the kitchen table, then he calls the police. He tells them where he is, that he killed 1092 people. Then he hangs up.

***

He has the diaries in his hands, fingers caressing the soft leather, when he walks to the cliff. The wind is beating against his face. He doesn’t feel it. This is what he’s been working up to, been killing for. When he reaches the edge he takes a last look back. It looks peaceful. He clutches the books. A single tear rolls down his cheek. And then he falls.

……….  
……….

 _In the darkness, two shadows, reaching through the hopeless, heavy dusk. Their hands meet, and light spills in a flood like a hundred golden urns pouring out of the sun._  
-Madeline Miller, The Song of Achilles

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Join me on tumblr (www.spoopy-murder-husbands.tumblr.com) and cry about Hannibal!! :)  
> Comments are always appreciated :)


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